Child.

Child.

The mist drew curls around her,
Cloaking her in an opaque silhouette.
The trees bended and twisted,
Dancing to the tunes of foreboding.
Three blind men saw in silence,
Catching the cringing, decadent wind.
Did they not see her white purity?

The silver Icarus reran his ascent,
Permeating the grey to an empty moon.
All that was burnt was remade to silk,
The spark still alive, among the nonchalant.
A dozen deaf sirens wailed in distress,
Calm ripples spread outwards like plague.
Did they not hear her afflicted calls?

The cloth hung with latent futility,
Its quintessence drowned in deep waters.
Her reflection defaced the warmest shrub,
Her hood still perched in forgotten submission.
Four muted children flew the magic carpet,
Interlined-twisted tree branches, screaming.
Did they not speak in prayer for her?

She stood in silent, pleading vacillation,
Her innocent child in her quivering hands.
His arms dangled limply from one side,
His hair vibrantly dancing with the brisk wind.
The naked branches bowed in subtle devotion,
To the winds catching the first few flowers.
Did they not feel the morbidity of its sleep?

In a white cloth which raped the darkness,
Innocence again forged a silent, futile battle.
Day in and day out to asphyxiating apathy,
An approving God observes from His perch.